


Boys Can't Kiss Boys

by foxesandforests



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys In Love, Clueless Sherlock, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-02 11:03:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxesandforests/pseuds/foxesandforests
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has lived his whole life believing that boys weren't meant to kiss other boys. But that's all he's ever wanted to do. His mind is a beautiful place before a seemingly innocent thing turns into a nightmare the somewhat naive teenager. Love betrays him, and Sherlock must suffer the consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever so I'm pretty h y p e. I love hurting poor Sherlock, and I've had the idea that he was a sweet (although somewhat naïve) teenager who just wanted to love. But then he gets hurt and all his "problems" kind of stem from there. Anyway, stick with me till the end cause I've got some super angsty things planned muahaha.

Sherlock Holmes had just turned thirteen. He had a mop of black hair that hung in his eyes, gaunt, pronounced cheekbones and was skinny as a rail. He didn’t eat much, which worried almost everyone. Hormones were also new in Sherlock’s life. He knew once he hit puberty, his whole world would turn upside down. He had done extensive research on the subject, to be as well prepared as possible. But all the reading in the world couldn’t prepare him for the actual thing. He felt angry one moment and over the moon the next. He felt the need to rebel and go against everything his parents and Mycroft had tried to teach him. Sex was a whole other story. Sherlock had read plenty about how boys would start noticing girls and feel physical urges. That didn’t scare him. What did scare him was when he didn’t feel those things about girls. No book had ever taught him about the way he would look at other boys. 

In maths class, a few days after his 16th birthday, Sherlock stopped sitting in the back row and moved to the seat next to a tall rugby player named Caleb. He had rich brown hair that fell in little waves across his forehead, complex amber eyes, and tan skin from hours of practice outside. Sherlock didn’t mean to stare. He convinced himself it was only for research. An in-depth character study of the strangely attractive athlete. Sherlock would glance at him underneath long eyelashes and unintentionally notice the way he stuck out the end of his tongue when working at an especially difficult problem. He counted the freckles on his upper arms that had appeared due to sunlight. If Caleb moved in any way, Sherlock’s eyes would dart back to his own paper and pretend to work out the problem he had solved ten minutes prior. 

One time, Caleb leaned over and put his hand on Sherlock’s desk, right next to his own hand.  
“What day is it, mate?” He whispered, eyeing the front of the room to make sure the teacher wasn’t watching.  
In that precise moment, Sherlock completely forgot the name of each and every day of the week. After a second, he cleared his throat quietly and whispered back, “It’s Thursday.”  
“No, like the number,” was the reply. Sherlock felt Caleb’s warm breath faintly on his neck and his leg started bouncing involuntarily.  
“October first.”  
“Thanks mate,” Caleb said with a smile, and leaned back over to his own desk again, writing the date at the top of his paper. Sherlock drummed his fingers rapidly on his paper when he felt a tightening in his pants. Oh god, not now. Sliding closer under his desk, he managed to go unnoticed. When the bell rang, Sherlock shoveled his books into his bookbag and with his shoulders hunched, made his way out of the classroom. 

That night, Sherlock laid on his stomach on his bed, books scattered all around in the organized chaos that he always found comforting. An empty cup that had previously held tea was on its side on his floor. Sherlock always liked his room. It wasn’t large but the light-colored walls and big windows made it seem spacious. A world map and periodic table chart adorned his wall, along with an X-Files poster. He closed the book he was reading and moved his feet in the air behind him. The encounter with Caleb earlier that day had caught him off guard. He never really thought of himself as human. After trying twice to explain it to children his age and getting strange looks in response, he had given up trying to tell anyone else. In his brain, he was a bank of consciousness and memories, data, and analytics. Decisions he made were based on prior knowledge and a predisposition of some sense of right and wrong. But when he looked in the mirror, suddenly everything went blank. Sherlock looked over to the mirror on the wall to his right. 

“I’m a person,” he said quietly. His fingers went through his black curls and over the line of his cheekbones and lips. “This is me.” The idea of having a body that accompanied his intellect was so indescribable. When one of the numerous child psychiatrists the Holmes brothers had visited heard Sherlock try to communicate this, she simply jotted down “disassociation”.  
Sherlocks hand paused on his lips. He thought back to the time he had peeked around the door to the living room and found Mycroft kissing Emily Johnson. It had looked wretched. He had never seen the appeal of touching mouths and tongues with another person and enjoying it. But when Caleb’s hand rested close to his own, Sherlock could barely resist the urge to put his hand over Caleb’s. He wanted to be close to him. Sherlock turned over on his back and moved his hand down so it rested on his lower abdomen.

He distinctly remembered sitting on the green plastic slide on the school playground when he was six. The sun was covered by clouds but the air was still warm and the breeze whistled through the sky softly.  
Suddenly, a girl with bright red hair and blue eyes to challenge his own ran up and sat next to him. Her stockinged legs, too short to reach the ground, swung back and forth. 

“You’re Sherlock, right?” She asked with a smile. 

“That’s me,” Sherlock replied cautiously. He wasn’t used to any children his age approaching him on the playground, or speaking to him in general. “And you’re Lucy, right?”

“Yes! Follow me, Sherlock.” Before he could protest, she was dragging him by the hand across the mulched playground until they were in the shaded area under the plastic rock wall. Sherlock couldn’t see any other children although he could still hear them. 

“What are we doing here for? Aren’t we meant to be playing with the other kids?”

“It’s all fine,” she said in a quiet voice as she scooched closer to him. “I want you to kiss me.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“Because boys are meant to kiss girls.”

“Well I’m not,” Sherlock said, trying to move away from her inconspicuously. 

Lucy giggled. “Were you meant to kiss boys instead?” she teased.

Sherlock just shrugged. “I don’t really know.” Immediately, Lucy’s smile dropped. Her tone became very serious. 

“You can’t do that, Sherlock. Boys can’t kiss boys. It’s wrong, my mother told me so.”

“Why is it wrong?” Sherlock inquired, genuinely curious to know. 

“Because my mother says if boys kiss other boys, they will get a serious disease.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And die.”

Sherlock looked down. “Oh, I didn’t know about that.” He thought for a few moments. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to kissing girls.”

Lucy’s grin returned.  
“That’s more like it,” she said before puckering her lips, closing her eyes, and moving closer to Sherlock. Sherlock quickly touched his lips to her and reeled back, wiping off his mouth with the back of his jumper sleeve. 

“That was great!” “That was nasty!” They both exclaimed at the same time. Sherlock got up and brushed the mulch off his trousers. 

“I’m going back to the slide.”

“But you’re my boyfriend now,” Lucy said, as if this were common knowledge. 

“Not remotely. My mum always says to try something once to see if you like it. Well I kissed a girl, and didn’t like it at all.” Sherlock spun on his heel and was soon resting on the slide once more. 

Sherlock had spent his whole life believing that boys shouldn’t kiss other boys. He was terrified that he felt “that” way about them. 

The sun had set by now and Sherlock realized that thinking about Caleb had made his cock begin to harden. He would usually try to think of other things, not boys, until it went away. But even Sherlock couldn’t just ignore biology, and he simply couldn’t ignore the courses of heat running down to his groin. He hurriedly unbuckled his trousers and started stroking himself slowly. He breath hitched and he closed his eyes, imagining every inch of Caleb’s skin, his two hundred and forty-seven freckles that dotted his arms, the curve of lips, the warm breath tickling Sherlock’s neck. He wanted Caleb to be pressed up against him, one hand behind his neck and the other down his pants. He wanted Caleb to kiss him. And the thought of that wasn’t gross at all. Sherlock steadily pumped faster and his breathing accelerated until he came in a few short bursts over his chest. And god, did it feel fantastic. He exhaled and licked the starting of sweat on his cupid’s bow. He grabbed a tissue from his nightstand and cleaned all evidence of his endeavor up, throwing the dirty tissue into the trash can. He took his belt off completely and changed into his pajama bottoms. Feeling a sudden wave of sleepiness, he hit the light switch off and crawled into bed. Thoughts swirled around in his head. Boys aren’t meant to kiss boys. Boys aren’t meant to kiss boys. Boys aren’t meant to kiss boys.  
“Then why does it seem so perfect?” Sherlocked murmured, as he drifted off to sleep.


	2. The Game

Caleb consumed Sherlock’s dreams. And daydreams. Sherlock saw his smile when he was drifting off to sleep and imagined Caleb’s eyes when he opened his own in the morning. He began to actually look forward to school. He would glance up and down the halls in search of him, and his eyes began to automatically scan the lunch room until he found him. Of course, Sherlock would never think to actually talk to him, that was totally out of the question. He was still quite terrified of him almost… obsession, with this boy. In a more than friends way. Not that Sherlock had friends.  
In fact, Sherlock was utterly helpless when it came to any sort of relationship. It wasn’t surprising, then, that he wouldn’t be quite sure how to feel about Caleb. 

It was at lunch when Sherlock got up to throw his things in the bin and head to his next class that his perceptive ears noted footsteps walking up behind him. Bullies were pretty much a constant to Sherlock, or to any kid who wasn’t like all the rest. He turned, ready to verbally defend himself, but stopped short. Caleb stood awkwardly on one foot, beveling the other. He smiled. 

“Hey, I noticed we always by each other in maths and I was wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime,” he asked, with the intonation of a question. He waited for Sherlock’s response. 

In some other universe, Sherlock would have said, Sure mate sounds good, and saved himself embarrassment. 

“What’s that mean?” He said instead. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what hanging out meant. But he really wanted to know what they would be doing. And when, and where, and how long, and if it was to be just the two of them. 

Caleb stared blankly at him with his gorgeous amber eyes. 

“Um…” he answered slowly. “It’s when two people go somewhere and have fun.” He said, a bit teasingly and a bit too sarcastic. 

Sherlock shifted his weight. “Of course, yeah, I mean I knew that.” He laughed in an effort to relieve the tension.

Caleb just chuckled. “You’re a strange one, they’re right.”

“Who’s right?”

“The blokes that talk about you. Call you freak and other names. I don’t listen to half of what they say. They’re idiots, anyway.”

Sherlock internally beamed at the fact another person so easily called others “idiots”, just like himself.

“How about the rugby game tonight? I’m captain, you know. We can grab some food afterword.”

“Yeah, yes. I mean, that sounds great. Thanks. You know, for inviting me,” Sherlock said awkwardly. 

“No problem, see you tonight!” Caleb flashed one last smile and rushed off to class. 

Sherlock skipped the rest of the day and went straight home. Confusing thoughts swirled around in his head. Caleb wanted to hang out with him? Was it a just friends thing? Or a date? Either way, all Sherlock knew was that Caleb wanted to see him more and for the first time in his life, he knew what the term “butterflies in my stomach” meant.

 

At 6:30 Sherlock left the house. Dressing well was something he always prided himself on. He wore black Keds and black jeans, with pastel blue oversized sweatshirt. He pushed the sleeves up because it wasn’t too chilly outside, and because he had seen other kids at school doing it, so he assumed it was cool. His curly black hair was fluffy with a few curls falling above his eyes, making a sharp contrast between the black and blue of his irises. He looked at his face in the car mirror, and, satisfied with his appearance, pulled out of the driveway.

The game was subpar. Caleb’s team lost, 10 to 8, but Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh when Caleb slammed his helmet at the ground and kicked it. It was incredible how people got so obsessed with a game, making it part of their lives. The best part of the match was when Caleb would glance over and smile at Sherlock, making sure he was watching. Sherlock was glad the air was a bit chilly and gave everyone’s cheeks a hint of pink, so his blushing would be unnoticeable. 

When everyone in the stands was clearing out, Caleb walked up to Sherlock. 

“It’s so bullshit. We are so much better than them, can’t believe we lost.”

“It’s a shame, yeah. Maybe food will make you feel better?” Sherlock suggested.

Caleb nodded. “I’ll drive us to Nando’s, then bring you back to your car later.” 

Something about the way Caleb’s eyes lingered on Sherlock’s lips make his stomach flip over. He nodded and followed Caleb out to his car.  
While Caleb was starting the ignition, Sherlock blatantly watched him, with no secrecy. He loved the little bit of sweat on his cupid’s bow, the way his hair curled a bit at his neck. Sherlock felt no inhibition, he wanted to be right next to him, on top of him, near him, whatever it took. Caleb seemed to sense Sherlock’s eyes on him, and he returned the look. The 10:00 sky was dark with clouds hiding the moon. The soft light cast shadows across the two boys faces. 

“You really are something else,” Caleb said softly. And he was. Sherlock’s long eyelashes and black curls made him look almost angelic in this light. His naïve eyes and trusting gaze were delicious to Caleb, his high cheekbones, and soft lips. Those lips. Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock felt Caleb’s hand behind his neck, and the warmth of another person’s lips on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, i'm just coming back from writers block. i've done a lot of research about the 1990's in the UK so i hope it's accurate. next chapter: smut! yay! please comment any ideas or suggestions you have :)


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